


Moments In Time

by FanficsbyVe



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 17:52:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8294755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanficsbyVe/pseuds/FanficsbyVe
Summary: Some Widowmaker/Tracer blurbs. One-shot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Widowmaker/Tracer story from a very casual Overwatch fan who doesn't play it herself and who simply wanted a short break from writing a ton of Soulsborne smut commissions. There is much better Widowmaker/Tracer work out there. Be sure to look for that.
> 
> For the people who are interested in the meaning of the French words: "Casse-couilles" is about the French equivalent of "pain in the ass". "Rosbifs" literally means "steaks" and is a derogatory term for the British in French, though it's clear Amélie says it playfully without meaning real insult. The string of code words Reyes uses mean: "Three. Unease. Silver. Car. Slaughter. Spider." "Fils de pute" means "son of a bitch".

It should have been a simple mission. 

That’s what the woman known as Widowmaker thinks. The only thing she can think, now her mind can’t be occupied with anything else. For once, she isn’t living from one mission to the next.

As she sits inside her glass cell, knowing Overwatch’s scientists are studying her through a one-way mirror, she feels empty and frustrated. In fact, she can’t sit for long and is starting to pace around like a caged animal. For once, she is feeling uncertainty and it’s killing her.

This morning, she set out with a simple mission. Kill the omnic named Zenyatta. Even after Tekhartha Monyotta died, some omnics continued to step forward, to speak out and try to smooth over conflicts. He was just another thorn in Talon’s thigh, another roadblock in their path to keeping the Omnic Crisis going, and as always, they sent her to pull it out. 

Unfortunately, either someone saw the assassination attempt coming or someone spilled the beans. When she got to Tibet, Zenyatta was waiting and so were several of his friends. Between a cyborg ninja, a warrior doctor, two old but impressive soldiers and a cowboy, she was quickly outnumbered and outplayed. She could have still gotten away, were it not for another casse-couilles showing up as well.

The British broad, Tracker or Trickster or whatever her code name was. The annoying Cockney with the chronal accelerator strapped to her chest. Widowmaker had already gotten the better of her in King’s Row, but it turned out the perky little flea had gotten better at reading a spider’s movements. With clever use of her Recall ability, she cut off her escape route and with one quick movement of a taser, the lights went out.

As her world went black, the last thing she saw was Talon’s black helicopter, swiftly flying away in the distance. She swore she could see Reaper hanging out of the side, watching her without a single emotion behind his mask as he left her behind. Some part, deep inside her indoctrinated mind, tells her that he left her to die. That he is simply running back to Talon to cover their tracks, offering her up to the blade of a reformed Overwatch. 

That’s likely what’s going to happen to her. They’re going to kill her. Execute her, either by needle or a quick shot to the back of the head. Then probably dump her body into some unmarked grave and be done with it. The thought would actually scare her, where her emotions not suppressed through mind control so long ago.

As such, all she can really wonder about is who’s going to do the deed. An professional executioner? The ninja with his katana or whatever variation of Japanese sword it is? Perhaps even that British little tart.

That thought makes her huff. Yeah, that would definitely make for poetic justice. She is quite sure miss flux capacitator would love to make her pay for her murder of Tekhartha Monyatta. The little girl probably can’t wait…

___

 

By now, Widowmaker has been in the new Overwatch facility for a month. Still alive. Still waiting. Yet in one piece and not even tortured. Or at least, not in any way that the United Nations would care about.

Apparently, execution was briefly considered. The man known as Jack Morrison pleaded for it, as did sniper Ana Anari. They said she could never be trusted, that she would always be a liability and if she was imprisoned, Talon could come for her again. A quick painless death was easier for all of them and seeing just how far from humanity she was now, it would be merciful.

Yet one person hadn’t agreed. The real savior angel, literally and figuratively, was the medic codenamed Mercy. She had furiously refused to simply throw a life away, just because it might be more convenient. Dr. Angela Ziegler, a staunch pacifist, was not the type to throw away something that was broken. She always fixed things and it was there that she stood her ground that they could fix her too. Even though she had to defy her superior and everyone around her to get it done.

When Widowmaker initially heard the verdict, she thought this meant reprogramming. They simply meant to make her a weapon for another master. Now, she wishes that was true. Or that they had simply killed her. 

So far, her deprogramming has been nothing but pure hell. Emotions are coming back to her, a trickle at first but steadily turning into a river. It’s as if her body is making up for all the years she went without and she is alternately laughing, crying, screaming or falling into bouts of melancholy. Every day, the hormone treatments and reconditioning takes her body and mind on a wild ride and she is nothing more than a helpless passenger unable to stop it.

Even worse than the influx of emotions are the memories. They are no longer dull, grainy images in the back of her head. They feel vivid, colorful and nearly every single one reeks of blood and suffering, of others and her own. She can’t escape them, not even in her sleep and after a while, she starts fearing nighttime as much as the next session with Dr. Ziegler.

Yet the worst thing, the most unbearable, is that every day, Tracer is there. She watches, behind thick, bulletproof glass, as every day, Angela wrests a little more of her old self from Talon’s mind control and tries to treat the agony this causes. The Brit is enjoying it, she must be. After all, if she isn’t allowed to die, then seeing her suffer must be the next best thing.

___

 

“Gérard!”

The woman who now knows herself as Amélie Lacroix calls out for him in the dark. She screams for the husband she killed, begging him to stay with her, not to leave her. Yet he never does, dying a cruel death in his sleep from a snapped neck.

Every single night now, she has relived this memory. The one where Talon’s torture finally took its toll. Where the drugs and the mind control plagued her enough to do the one thing she didn’t want to do. It seems to get worse every time too.

She can see herself, someone who is her and yet not her, put her hands around his neck. Inwardly, she screams and cries, but it’s like she’s trapped within her body, banging against glass as she’s helpless to stop it. She hears him die, with that single sickening snap and a final death rattle. Then there is a blank and nothing but shocks and needles. 

Widowmaker jerks awake with a blood-curdling scream, sitting up in bed before bolting away from it. She runs, to where she doesn’t know, but she’s encased by glass on all sides. The feeling of being trapped overwhelms her and she throws herself against the obstruction, desperate to escape.

“Amélie?”

The sound of her name brings her back to reality. Somewhere in her mind, she notes how odd it sounds, not like anyone she truly knows. It’s pronounced like “Emily”, as if the person speaks French poorly, and it has a notable British accent. 

“Did you have another nightmare about Gérard, love?”

She looks up, to see the woman named Tracer, dressed half in her gear and half in pajamas, standing over her. She can’t tell the other woman’s expression in the relative dark and frankly, she doesn’t care. The sight of her enrages Widowmaker and she snarls.

“Leave me be.”

She doesn’t respond to her anger and simply sits down with her. “Everything is alright. You’re in the Overwatch Research Facility, holding cell 23E. It’s alright. You can’t hurt anyone. No one will hurt you again either.”

That string of words, even if it comes from the Brit’s mouth, calms her a little, reminding her of where she is once more. She sinks down onto the ground, breath coming out in small, panicked gasps. She curls into a ball, trying to get a hold of herself again. Meanwhile, Tracer simply stays. 

“That’s right, love. Breathe. Breathe in deep and exhale. Do it again. You’re doing great, just take your time…”

There is absolutely no sarcasm or mockery and Amélie feels how the smaller woman gently rubs her back. There is something oddly soothing about that gesture, to actually be touched outside of her therapy session and in a comforting way. Then and there, it really dawns on her that the girl doesn’t fear her and while she somewhat admires that fact, she can’t help but state the obvious.

“You should hate me.”

There is a short silence and at a moment, the younger woman seems lost for words. The Frenchwoman grimaces. As far as she was concerned, nobody has to pretend to like her or even care. Especially not the person who saw her brutally murder another. Still, just as she is about to tell her to leave, Tracer speaks.

“Maybe I did once. But I know what happened to you. What Talon did. Now, I can only feel sorry…”

Amélie simply stares at her, baffled. She can’t believe her ears. This girl, this foolish little naïve girl, actually feels sorry for her? She wants to laugh, if only her voice would let her. That has got to be the most pathetic thing she has ever heard. Not on Tracer’s part but on hers, to think she is seen as nothing but a thing that requires help.

She wants to tell her this, to her face, if only to make herself feel better. She wants to shout at her, through tears, that she doesn’t want pity. She simply wants the endless pain and memories to stop, to have full control of her body and mind again. To feel normal, just for once, if they aren’t going to be so merciful as to kill her. She wants to scream all of this at the younger woman, but she can’t. 

All she can do is cry.

She says nothing as Tracer gives her a cloth to wipe her eyes and gently helps her up. She puts an arm around her and again, she feels strangely comforted. What the other woman says next only enforces this. 

“Come on, love. I’ll get you back to bed. Everyone else is asleep, but I’ll be on watch. That way if you have a nightmare, I can come and wake you up.”

___

 

“Top of the morning to you, love.”

Amélie doesn’t greet the woman back as she enters the cell. She feels hesitant to. It’s been a week since her last freakout and while Tracer, or Lena as she now found out, hasn’t told a soul, she isn’t sure what to think of it. She isn’t sure what to think of someone being nice to her at all. Especially after all the mind games Talon played on her… 

“So, uh, I brought you a little something…”

She gets something out of her bag and Widowmaker tenses on instinct. She can see how Lena’s face falls and she pulls out a brown paper bag. It takes a few moments before Amélie realizes she can smell warm bread and the scent causes old memories to come to the surface.

The younger female puts the bag in her hands. “I got you some chocolate croissants. I know Angela keeps you on this orange juice and oatmeal breakfast diet and I’m sure it must really tick you off by now. Now, I wasn’t sure about what you’d fancy, but I figured you’d might like to eat this.”

She puts the bag in her hands and Widowmaker stares at her incredulously. An awkward silence settles between them and she’s sure the crickets started singing somewhere. Eventually, Angela Ziegler lives up to her codename of Mercy and calls for Lena. She perks up and zips out of the cell. 

“Well, I’ve got work to do. I’ll see you around.”

Amélie waits until she’s gone. Then she huffs as she looks down at the bag. Really, what’s wrong with this girl? She can’t think of a single person in this world who would hate chocolate croissants and if they do, she doesn’t want to meet them. 

___

 

Today, Amélie Lacroix realizes she’s no longer blue.

At least, not physically.

Once upon a time, she thought Dr. Ziegler only meant to cure her mentally, but the woman has truly gone above and beyond. After more than six months of intense therapy, the unnatural adjustments Talon made are slowly being reversed. Her heartbeat has been brought up to a normal rhythm and bit by bit, her body has started to return to its old self.

She gasped the first time she looked in the mirror and realized her skin tone had changed. It was becoming lighter, even a little purplish as a shade of pink started to break onto the surface. The sight of it fascinated and frightened her, as it was strange to see the face she had gotten so used to was slowly disappearing. 

The process was gradual and with each new day, the pink started to win out over the blue. Her hair started to change the same way, its unhealthy purple dying off to be replaced with healthy black brown locks. Even her sickly yellow eyes returned to their usual light brown sheen. 

Today is the first day she truly looks at her former self again. The light skin is smooth and has a blush to it, a sign of blood flowing properly. Her black brown hair falls down her shoulders and is no longer mismatched with her now light brown eyes. There are still some small blotches of blue left on her skin and a few stray purple hairs, but she knows these too will soon disappear. She smiles. It feels good seeing herself like this again, just the way she looked on old photographs. 

It feels like looking upon an old friend.

She smiles and it’s there she realizes she isn’t feeling so blue emotionally either. Dr. Angela is a wonderful, patient woman and has called in the help of the finest psychiatrist, just for her. She visits her every other day and the woman is a marvelous help in her long road to recovery. 

By now, she looks forward to those visits. Even if they’re usually filled with tears and panic attacks, she also feels pleasantly empty after each session. Her fractured mind has a long way to go, but it’s slowly pulling itself together and she’s in an environment where everyone does nothing but support her. 

This even shows in the little things. As she’s done for the last few months, Lena comes by to visit her. She usually brings stuff with her nowadays. Old photographs and belongings from her life before Talon, treats or entertainment. Nowadays, she even sticks around for as long as her works lets her and the two chat about average subjects like the weather or latest TV show. All of it helps her feel a little more normal and Lena’s positive attitude definitely aids with that.

She gasps when she comes in, smiling broadly. “Well, look at you! You’re no longer a Smurf!” 

She smiles, a broad smile showing off her teeth. “Indeed. First day looking like my old self again! Still have a long way to go, but it’s got to start somewhere. I’m proud of it.”

By now, Tracer is beaming. “Please do! You look so pretty! Especially when you smile!”

She slaps her hand in front of her mouth, flushing red as she says this, but Amélie doesn’t mind. Sure, she’s figured out by now that the younger woman is into girls, but even then she enjoys hearing it, knowing she means it as a sincere compliment and nothing else. She likes Lena, having found out just how sweet and sincere she is, and she's starting to see her as a good friend. What better person to help you rebuild self-esteem?

___

 

“I can’t even remember the last time I shopped for clothes…”

For the first time in her life, Amélie feels slightly agoraphobic. It’s been so long since she’s been out into the real world, let alone as a civilian. She feels incredibly vulnerable, walking around in street clothes among the large crowds. She feels as if at any moment, this whole thing could fall apart, even though it’s been two years since Overwatch captured her and Talon no doubt thinks she’s dead. 

It’s only recently that she’s been officially discharged from the Overwatch Research Facility. Dr. Ziegler officially declared her brainwashing undone and all protocols wiped. She no longer needed to be held in her cell, but she still needed to live under supervision for a few more years before she’d be considered safe.

That new development left her worried for a while, had it not been for Lena. She offered for her to move into her apartment in the Overwatch headquarters, as it was large enough for two people. By now, Amélie felt so comfortable with her that she readily accepted.

Indeed, so far she really likes living with Tracer. She’s a fun person with a wicked sense of humor yet also leaves her her space, a fact she immensely appreciates. The older woman in turn repays her for letting her stay by keeping the place clean, doing groceries and getting food on the table in the evening, as well as taking care of any interesting items she brings home from her missions. Amélie uses her Art History degree to research, appraise and sell them, helping them make ends meet.

Still, this will be the first real test of average life. A simple shopping trip, in order to get some new clothes that weren’t ill-fitting hand-me-downs from the much shorter Lena. A very normal task for most people, a big leap for her. 

Tracer, as always, is excited. “Well, then it’s time to make some new, good memories. You can’t exactly wear those ugly orange jumpers in public.”

“I know. But still… I forgot how normal feels. Is there some method to the madness? You Brits are always so orderly with your queues. Do you also have a shopping protocol?”

Lena rolls her eyes. “Oy, the English shop exactly the same way as everyone else! We go into stores, we look at the merchandise…”

“And then you get the tea leaves?”

Tracer snorts. “You boil snails for hors d’oeuvres and it’s our tea that bothers you?” 

“No, that would be your jellied eels. Really, what were you rosbifs thinking when you came up with that??”

“Froggy.”

“Limey.”

The two of them simply snicker at their own infantile exchange. They look back into the crowded streets and Amélie sighs. She was stalling again. Her friend seems to notice and smiles.

“Here’s an idea. We go to a few different stops with different styles and see which one you like. Then we’ll exclusively look for that. Every once in a while, we’ll stop for a drink or snack. We can have ice cream. How does that sound?”

“Good, as long as you don’t try to make me buy a striped shirt and a beret.”

“Aw, but I wanted to get you that. With complimentary glass of wine and a baguette!”

Widowmaker laughs a little at her humor and upbeat attitude. Leave it to Lena to turn something overwhelming into a fun little adventure. Still, that kind of mentality is just what she needed. 

She nodds and took a deep breath as she steps further into the crowded mall. She should try to enjoy herself today. After all, with that many years of misery behind her, she’s earned it. 

___

 

Amélie has never considered herself entirely heterosexual. 

Of course, she generally prefers men. She has dated men most of her life and she and Gérard had been happily married. Still, she never considered it entirely impossible that she might fall for a woman, especially if she met all the conditions she looked for in her male partners as well.

Recently, that line of reasoning is coming back to her. She has been living with Lena for quite a while now and in time, she has grown more than just fond of her housemate. By now, she had so admit, she might actually be starting to love her.

How could she not, really? Lena Oxton is one of the sweetest, purest people she’d ever met. A kind soul with immeasurable compassion, who endured even in the face of immense tragedy and cruelty. She is a brave, bold woman, one who refuses to live life with baggage. There is a strength in her and it was that strength that draws Amélie like a moth to flame. 

That thought is as exciting as it was scary to her. Part of her is happy at this tiny revelation of humanity. The fact that she can still love and trust after so much suffering. 

Yet another part of her is scared like a child. After all, Lena has done so much for her already. She has forgiven her for her crimes, cared for her and comforted her, even let her into her home. But is it one step too far to ask if she’d let her into her heart as well?

Could she love a woman who was once a murderer?

___

 

That night, as she wakes up from a light sleep, Amélie knows something was wrong. She knows, without even seeing anything out of place.

There’s something evil inside the apartment. Something that has somehow managed to sneak in past security. Something horrifying and something familiar and she knows it’s not the nightmares of the trauma she’d endured.

Dr. Ziegler is a fine doctor, but even though she was no longer a puppet, she could not erase her training. The sniper in her has the hairs in her neck stand on edge and refuses to ignore her intuition. So she gets up from her bed, grabbing a baseball bat for lack of a gun and quietly sneaks into the living room.

Hardly had she entered it or she freezes over. In front of her is a sight she’d hoped she’d never see again. A familiar man in a skull mask, dressed entirely in black. She already knows why he’s here.

A rough chuckle leaves his mouth. “So, you really are alive.”

Lena…

That was the first thought that goes through Amélie’s head. Did he already get to her friend before he went for her? A thousands horrific scenarios of her being killed in her sleep flash through her head, but any fear or terror is quickly replaced by survival instinct.

She hisses, clutching the bat tightly. “I intend to stay that way, Reyes.”

Within moments, he approaches, reducing to that strange mist-like state that she always feared. He reforms mere inches in front of her and then and there, she feels the cold metal of a gun pressed to her forehead. His intent is now obvious, as if it hadn’t been before.

Again, there’s that cruel laugh. “Sorry, Talon can’t have that. Can’t have you squeal any more. Nothing personal, Amélie…”

With those words, he pulls the trigger, but Widowmaker is quicker. Without thinking, she moves and jams the bat into Reaper’s stomach. The man hunches over with a pained grunt, lowering the gun and she doesn’t hesitate. She reaches for the gun and keeps bringing down the bat on him with her free arm, using all the strength she has, knowing it’s him or her.

Reyes instantly goes on the defense. He does his best to deflect her blows, meanwhile trying to shoot at her again and again with another gun he has on him. She pushes her body to the limit in order to avoid his shots, screaming as she counterattacks, praying that Lena is still alive and sounds the alarm.

It only takes a few seconds, but it seems like forever before she hears Lena’s sleepy voice call her name amidst the gunshots. It sounds surprised, only to be followed by the sound of the younger woman practically breaking down her own bedroom door. She comes bursting through into the living room, chronal accelerator on her chest and armed with two fully loaded guns. The sight would almost make Widowmaker laugh, would it not pay for her to come so crazy-prepared. 

Without thinking, she starts to fire and now, Reaper is outnumbered and outmatched. Amélie uses his distraction to keep charging at him. Soon, he has nowhere to go between her swings and Lena’s shots. A hit in the shoulder and a sound crack of the bat against his back has him fall onto his knees and it only takes another pistol whip from Tracer to work him against the ground. 

She swears she can feel his panicked looks behind his mask as he struggles, but the gun at his head prevents him from even attempting to teleport. He clearly knows the curtain is falling. Amélie feels how he looks her in the eyes, struggling to utter a familiar series of words. 

“Trois. Malaise. Argent. Voiture. Massacre. Araignée.”

Once upon a time, those words would have filled her with fear. Each one of them are triggers, a code meant to reprogram her brain back into obedience. He’s trying to trigger her into killing once more. To turn her on Lena and everyone else in this building. To give him a chance to escape and then hand her back to Talon on a silver platter.

Yet now, she’s only amused. Without a trace of fear, she watches him drone on, waiting for him to finally catch on that whatever he was doing isn’t working. To finally realize his chapter ended with two women in nightwear beating the crap out of him. When he does, his reaction is priceless.

“No, impossible…”

By now, a wide grin appears on her face. “You should have seen it coming, fils de pute.”

She raises the bat again and strikes, as hard as she can without killing him. She then watches in satisfaction how his lights go out and casually sits on his back to make sure he can’t get away. She smirks, watching as Lena calls security.

“We both know Angela Ziegler is one of the best.”

___

 

The assassin named Widowmaker once only felt alive when she killed. Any other time that she felt alive and happy was long forgotten. She was a tool for killing, a tool only aware of the own heart in her chest and blood in her veins when she took a life.

Until today.

Today, standing in front of the United Nations in the trial of Gabriel Reyes, code-named Reaper, she feels a sense of being alive that she never considered possible before. A sense of victory, one she fought she’d never attain.

Here she stands, impeccably dressed, swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. And she does. She does so, even though everyone in Overwatch told her she didn’t have to if it was too traumatic for her. She doesn’t care; she simply wants to.

Yes, there at the witness stand, she feels utterly alive. There, for all the world to see, recounting all the horrific things Talon is capable of. To joust with a slippery defense attorney and easily get through his cross examination, to not even leave the slightest bit of doubt about their evil. 

She doesn’t care that occasionally, there are tears. Or nausea. Or fits of panic at reliving her trauma as she tells her story. It’s hers to tell and she will do so without fear, without hesitation, if only to bring justice to the bastards who wronged her.

Yet the best thing of all is to face Reaper. To watch him squirm and sneak trigger after trigger into his defenses in order to provoke her. To see his despair when that clearly doesn’t work. To look him in the eye, unafraid, as her words damn him. 

That, she knows, was the ultimate coup de grace to him and to Talon. Justice. A life of rotting away for them while she goes on with her life. Talon no longer has a hold on her, their torture no longer deciding her actions. She will never forget, but she will never let it define her. 

Her name was Amélie Lacroix and after all she’d gone through, she is now a survivor. Talon will fall and be crushed while she rises like a phoenix. She’s going to keep on living, making the most of her time on this earth, refusing to be tethered by their memory.

That, she feels, is sweeter than any vengeance.

___

 

“So…I’ve been thinking…”

“You actually think?”

Lena glares at Amélie’s remark and she smirks back. She’ll never stop enjoying getting a rise out of her. That’s how comfortable they are with each other now and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

The two of them are sitting in front of the TV, watching one of those old-timey Japanese movies, where a terrible monster that looks strangely like a hand puppet lays waste to a scale model of Tokyo. They are both huddled under a blanket, enjoying hot chocolate milk. It’s a welcome diversion, especially after the grueling trial and she wants nothing more than to simply be at ease with the person she loves and trusts.

Still, Tracer has her question. “I’ve been thinking… You were married before, right?”

Amélie frowns, surprised by this strange but obvious observation. “Yes. And?”

“Well, I never really asked… I’m sure you loved Gérard, but…was it just guys?”

Widomaker can’t help but notice how her face turns red as she asks. “And you wish to know this why?”

“Oh, no reason, love. No reason in particular…”

The both of them remain silent for a while and Lena takes a deep gulp of her drink. Her eyes turn back to the TV and everything about her body says that she wants to bury this conversation quickly. Amélie, however, isn’t quite that willing.

“Are you coming on to me, Lena Oxton?”

There is a choking sound as some chocolate milk clearly goes down the wrong opening. Tracer coughs a little, causing the older woman to pat her on the back in order to help her. The Englishwoman squeaks out a thanks, only to groan as she sees some large stains in the blanket.

“Oh, bugger!”

By now, she’s an interesting shade of scarlet and looks more uncomfortable than anything else. Amélie doesn’t see why she should be. If anything, her indirect admission of attraction answered a question she’s been asking herself for a while now. She leans forward and pecks the younger woman on the lips, causing her to let out a little gasp. 

“Well, I wouldn’t mind. But let’s just start with a date first. And take it slow. After all, I’ve already been married before.”

For a few moments, Lena simply sits there, stunned speechless and looking remarkably cute that way. It seems to take a moment for her to process that the attraction between is mutual and that an outwardly straight woman had in fact shown interest back. The Frenchwoman would laugh at her baffled expression while the gears turn in her head, but instead, she simply waits for a response.

Then, out of nowhere, the younger female starts beaming. Amélie can practically see stars in her eyes and she decides then and there it’s the most beautiful the girl has ever looked. Instantly, she’s back to her old perky self and she giggles. 

“Yeah, a date sounds wonderful, love. And from there, we’ll see how it goes.”


End file.
